“I have them sent weekly from Buyda,” he said persuasively; “you know our metropolis prides itself on these fascinating trifles, and will not allow the superiority of even Vienna or Paris itself.”
My hostess added a word of recommendation and pushed the dish towards me. Understanding her feint of pressing them upon me, I took several of the bon-bons on to my plate, and from time to time made a pretence of eating one, at the same time being loud in praise of their excellent flavour. A trick acquired in my school days of palming coins and cork pellets stood me now in good stead, and in a short time the sweets had left my plate and were safely stowed in my pocket.
The secretary, Bleisst, now began to join freely in the conversation, and every fresh remark he made confirmed my conviction that I had talked with him on some previous occasion, but certainly not under his present identity.
As his sister rose and left us, the Count came to me, and, laying his hand familiarly on my shoulder, told me he could not think of permitting me to turn out that night and go all the way to the inn.
“You must sleep here,” he insisted. “I need not apologize to a man of your nerve for the gloom of our rooms. We have doubtless both had worse hunting quarters, and I can furnish you with everything you need to make you comfortable. So you must not say no.”
I had all along expected this invitation, and had made up my mind to go through with the adventure at all hazards, leaving to chance the details of a vague plan I had formed for discovering Fräulein von Winterstein’s prison. Accordingly I thanked him and accepted.
“That is friendly of you,” he said. “Bleisst, will you see that all arrangements are made for Mr. Tyrrell’s comfort. I think the Prior’s room will be most pleasant.”
The secretary had come up to us, and now turned with a slight bow to go off on his errand. As he did so, some expression in his face, which I had not noticed before, gave me in a flash the clue to his identity. Then I knew who he was. The face was curiously, unaccountably changed; it was fifteen or twenty years younger; the man’s expression and mode of speaking were different. Nevertheless, a tell-tale slip had betrayed him, and now, perfect as his disguise had been, I recognized in the smug, clean-shaven Herr Bleisst none other than the soi-disant Professor Seemarsh.